Prime Cut

I was having trouble breathing. “Sheila—”

“The department is already doing a sweep of the cabin.”

“Can you give me the autopsy results?”

She snorted. “You must be joking.”

“He was my teacher, Sheila.”

“Let’s go.” Her voice was increasingly chilly, and I wondered if she was afraid I was going to get hysterical on her.

“I need to go help Pru,” I replied. “Andre would want me to be with her. But I’m not going anywhere until you promise to call me.”

She tsked. “Have Tom give me a ring in a couple of days.” She took my arm. “Right now, you and I are going to the lunchroom.”

We came through the opaque glass door to the brightly wallpapered lunchroom. A sudden noisy wash of people engaged in conversation made me reel back. Sheila murmured something about going to her office and left my side.

My mind seemed to splinter; I observed that Julian had done a superb job serving lunch. The salad platters were littered with shreds of lettuce and crushed cherry tomatoes; the roll baskets were forlornly empty. The morgue staff was digging into their dessert. Julian was chatting with two older women. When he saw me, he left them and walked quietly to my side.

“Well?” When I nodded that yes, it was Andre, he said, “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. You did a nice job here. But … I need to help Pru now.”

“I called Tom at the department. He offered to pick me up with all the equipment. I thought … you might want my car. But now I’m worried about you driving.”

“I just need some coffee, please, Julian. And maybe a glass of water. I have to help Pru,” I repeated, as if giving that help would structure my next few hours and make things clear. How could Andre—so full of life and mischief—be gone?

Julian brought me water and coffee and handed me his keys. I mumbled a thanks. “Goldy. Are you sure you can drive?”

I sipped the dark coffee; it tasted like ashes. “Yes, I think so. Where did the rest of them—Pru, Sheila—where did they go?”

He rummaged in one of the boxes, pulled out my purse, and handed it to me. “They’re talking in the office. The Rover’s on the far east side of the parking lot, remember? I’ll meet you back at home.”

I waved at the detritus on the lunchroom table. “But—”

“Go.”

In the office waiting area, Sheila O’Connor talked quietly with Wanda Cooney. Another morgue staff person was shuffling papers and asking Pru questions. Pru, seated next to the desk, mumbled answers. The gist of their conversation had to do with Pru not being able to see and therefore not being able to sign the necessary papers. The papers were being sent on to an attorney. Wanda acknowledged my arrival with a nod, then walked over to attend Pru.

Sheila O’Connor told us: “We’ll release the body for burial in three or four days. There’s a committee at St. Stephen’s Roman Catholic Church in Aspen Meadow that helps with a memorial service or funeral arrangements when the spouse or family can’t.”

Pru’s voice rose, tremulous. “Goldy? Are you there? You were his favorite.”

I went over to Pru’s side and leaned down to embrace her. “Let’s go back to your place. You should be home.”

Sheila motioned me over for a last message. “Tom called. He wanted to know if you’d prefer to wait for him.” When I bit the inside of my lip and didn’t reply, Sheila added, “I promised I’d call him back, if you want to leave right away.”

“Tell him I’ll meet him at home in a couple of hours. Tell him I’ll be fine—not to worry.”

I headed west in Julian’s black Range Rover behind Wanda Cooney’s dull green Suburban. Overhead, the sun shone briefly between mushrooming gray clouds. One of our summer thunderstorms was brewing. The half of my brain still operating logically recalled that the drive to the Blue Spruce condo would take forty-five minutes. Time to focus on Pru, whom I barely knew, despite my long friendship with Andre.

But I could not. I ground the gears and felt my mind shift from rationality to despair. Andre dead. It wasn’t possible.

Raindrops spattered across the windshield. The wipers scraped noisily over the glass as the van crested the interstate; the Continental Divide, thickly shrouded in mist, came into view. A heart attack. Two burns.

Tongues of lightning flicked above the near mountains as we turned into Aspen Meadow. At the turnoff to Blue Spruce, I glanced down Main Street. Stupid, unexpected worries about the tasting party the following day loomed. How would I gather supplies? When would I manage to finish the cooking? How could the packing and serving get pulled together? Julian will do it, I told myself. Thank God for Julian.

Water splatted on the glass and I turned on my lights. Beside the road, Cottonwood Creek gushed and foamed. A memory of Andre trying dinner menus appeared from nowhere. He would always offer the cooking staff dishes laden with possibilities: cranberry-glazed pork with sweet potato pudding; seared steak Hong Kong with creamy risotto; poached Dover sole nestled in steamed artichokes and hollandaise. He would concentrate intently as he drizzled blackberry sauce over a spill of crepes, then have me taste as he meticulously wrote out times for prepping and cooking. He would cap his pen and say, “Now, Goldy. All is well?”

No. All is not well.

I needed information. I needed to know what had happened to him. How it could have happened to him. I picked up my cellular phone and punched in the number for information. When the operator answered I asked for the number for Mountain Taxi. Yes, I replied to the operator’s query; I would like her to connect me.

The taxicab dispatcher’s voice crackled. I identified myself as a cook who worked with Andre Hibbard, and could I speak with the driver who brought Mr. Hibbard to work this morning? The dispatcher put me on hold. It was unlikely that the police would have questioned the driver already, I figured. If for some reason the sheriff’s department didn’t want me to talk to the driver, then I would have to come up with another strategy.

The line filled with static and then cleared. “Yeah, this is Mike. I took the chef this morning. I’ve been driving him out to that job site. Who’re you again?”

“It’s Goldy Schulz, the caterer. I used to work with Andre.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been taking him to work lately. The old guy couldn’t drive. I gotta call here, whaddaya need to know?”

I asked about his schedule this morning. Mike had picked Andre up at six-thirty, an hour earlier than usual. When I asked why so early, Mike replied, “I don’t know. I ast the chef, What you cooking out there this time of the morning? You already got two big boxes of food. Ain’t you done yet? And he got all huffy, the way he does, you know, and said, Yeah, he was done with the cooking, but that he still had work to do. That was it. Told me he’d call when he was done, the way he usually does, only he didn’t. Did you take him back?”

“No.” I wasn’t going to tell Mike that Andre was dead; he’d find out soon enough. I forced myself to concentrate on my driving. The Rover hurtled along a winding paved road bordered by a steeply cut cliff. I glanced at the creek and meadow on the right and said, “Was anyone else there? Anyone at all?”

“Nope. The gate was open, and that was what I was worried about, but Andre had called ahead about that. No cars. I helped him carry the boxes across the creek the way I usually do, then I left.”

“And what was in the boxes?”

“His food and his beaters and whatnot. Why? Some-thin’ wrong?”

“What food? Did he tell you?”

“He told me, but now I can’t remember. Wait … individual custards, he told me. People love ‘em, he said.”

“No fruit to slice, no coffee cake to make?”

“Nope. He’d made muffins to go with the custards. He even gave me one, had orange peel in it. It was good.”

I took a deep breath. “Did you notice his hands? Had he been burned? Did he complain that he’d been